


tide and storm

by heartofstanding



Category: The Hobbit
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-28 05:09:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17781161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofstanding/pseuds/heartofstanding
Summary: Thranduil comes to Erebor to strength the fragile relationship between the Woodland Realm and Erebor, but finds himself cut off from the light and life of the outside world.





	tide and storm

It's not that Erebor is carved into the mountain and the deep roots of the earth, that the light in here is so scarce, never enough. It's _not_. He has lived in the stone halls of Menegroth and of his own design, trying to turn memories of the Elves' spring into stone once more. He knows that the dwarves try their best to retain the light, but they do not share the Elves' love of it.

It is just the world inside these gates is cold and bare. It was the Elves that gave Moria its name, _the black pit_ , and the insult of it makes a muscle in his jaw twitch. There is nothing alive in these halls but the dwarves and their guests, nothing green, nothing growing.

In the woods, he knew himself, knew his surrounds, the fast-flowing forest rivers, the branches and leaves, the deer and squirrels. Even his enemies were not unfamiliar to him. Here, he stands still and has to listen hard and in the right direction to find the Running River, to find his way forward.

It is not the abundance of dark that he fears, that bewilders him, but the absence of growth. Everything is hard and sharp, fashioned by the dwarves and their tools. It is beautiful, but there is no breath of life in the stone that he can feel.

+

Thorin pours the wine, red like blood filling a golden goblet and Thranduil turns away. Even the food and drink here smells stale and dead, the roast meat making his stomach turn. Was there nothing for him here, then, nothing but the cold, sharp stone and the unfriendly eyes?

'Thranduil,' Thorin says his name gently, not like a curse, and Thranduil feels his spirit jerking his body. He looks at Thorin again, reaching out for the wine with unsteady hands.

'It is a good vintage,' he says, quietly, and does not add that it tastes better if drunk beneath the stars, in the middle of a hazel-wood, air fresh and clean amongst them.

'You've said,' Thorin's voice is dry. He sips the wine, sets the goblet aside. 'Am I take insult, then?'

'Insult?'

Thranduil bristles, thinking of the way they have rebuilt the alliances, turned them from a bare tree in the midst of a terrible winter to some vulnerable sapling, waiting for the spring to grow. And now his bewilderment, the feeling that his spirit is not safe in his body, that he is waiting for a sundering, is being called an insult, an offence, and he has come here for no reason but for the good of the fragile alliance. He places the goblet down on the table, stands, every muscle in him locked tightly – for flight or fight, he does not know.

'If I have offended you, King Under The Mountain, then I must apologise and take myself elsewhere.'

_Yes_ , he thinks, leave these halls. Sleep amongst the grass, with the stars above, and be woken by the dew. Forget the Mountain and the delirium it brings him.

Thorin gets to his feet as well, takes Thranduil's elbow in a soft grip, as if readying himself to be thrust away.

'I have taken no offence – yet. But if you leave now, with this between us, I most certainly will.'

Thranduil does not know what to say to that. He wants to go, wants the free air and the green world so very badly, but he cannot go without insulting the dwarves.

'Thranduil, talk to me.' Thorin almost sounds like he cares – but why should he? Still, Thranduil must answer or else risk the ruination of their alliance.

'An Elf,' he says, 'is not made to live like this.'

'What, amongst stone?' Thorin rolls his eyes, 'I've seen where you live, Thranduil.'

'No,' Thranduil says, 'Cut off from life. Oh, I know you will talk about how the stone lives, but I am need the freer air, the sweet breeze from the west.'

For a moment, Thorin says nothing, his face set like carven stone. Then he nods to himself, taking Thranduil's hand more securely than he took his elbow. 'Come with me. I need to show you something.'

So they go, climbing up endless staircases and Thorin does not pause for rest, going on tirelessly and Thranduil can only follow. They come to a room carved from the living stone of the mountain, where a window has been set in the side without glass. Here, they may see the city of Dale, the Running River, the stars and the sky and breathe the air that is not filtered through layers of stone and metal. Here, the wide, open plains are visible to all.

'Oh.'

Thranduil presses his hands to the ledge, takes deep breaths and, at once, his body settles, his heart soothed by the dark shadows of the woods he calls his home. Thorin stands at his side, smiling softly, sadly, and Thranduil turns to him, presses a swift kiss upon his lips.

'Thank you,' he breathes, 'Thank you.'


End file.
